Chapter 2. The Squire and the Second Marshal - 2
At first light the next morning, those appointed to ride with the Second Marshal on his journey to Eastfold were already making their preparations. The young squire Éomer, alight with energy, moved briskly to and fro—his high spirits so infectious that even the most exacting quartermaster found himself swept along by them.
Looks like he has come around, Théodred thought, watching his cousin’s retreating figure with a quiet surge of pride. Of course he has—I always knew he would. My brother was never one to brood, still less to wallow in pettiness.
Had they not already planned an early departure, Théodred might well have gone straight to Gríma and given him a reckoning. Few in Edoras were petty enough to spread such slander without hope of gain, and fewer still whose words Éomer might take for truth—even in part. That left but one likely culprit, and no room for doubt. As for why Éomer would credit such a man with anything—that was a long tale, and if you asked Théodred, he would say it was not one fit to be told. But we shall tell it here all the same.
Some days earlier, Théodred was in his chambers, reviewing the list of weapons and supplies prepared for the journey to Eastfold, idly debating whether to have Éomer give his sword one more polish, when the boy burst in—dishevelled and breathless. He spoke no word, offered no greeting, but strode in and shut the door hard behind him.
“What is it?” Théodred was taken aback. By now, he had spent five years in Éomer’s company; though they had not yet faced great war together, they had weathered no small number of scrapes and skirmishes. He knew well that Éomer, though still young, was not easily shaken. But now—for the first time—he saw the boy truly stricken. His face was pale as mare’s milk, so pale that the golden fuzz on his chin, not yet cleanly shaven, stood out stark against it.
“It’s Éowyn—she’s sick!” Éomer burst out.
Now Théodred was truly alarmed. “What do you mean, sick? Speak plainly!”
“I tried so hard to find a moment to ask her, but she insists she’s fine—told me not to worry!” Without waiting for questions, Éomer poured out the rest in a rush. “How could I not worry? You know what she’s like—stubborn as stone, proud to a fault. She’s been ill before and wouldn’t admit it, and if it’s overlooked again, what then?” The boy—now nearly as tall as Théodred—slumped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “My mother… when she fell ill, it was just like this…”
Théodred’s concern deepened—but he was older, and his mind was clearer. “Have you spoken to my father?”
“No,” Éomer muttered, his voice low and muffled. “I came straight to you.”
Despite his unease, Théodred was moved. “Then come with me. For such matters, We must speak to Gríma. Even if you had gone to my father, we would have ended up there in the end.”
Gríma, as it happened, practised the trade that the Rohirrim loosely named that of a wandering leech. The term was not used in scorn. Much of the Mark still followed a semi-nomadic life and lacked the learned healers or established houses of medicine known in Gondor. When illness came, folk turned to seasoned men of the road—herb-wise and hardened by long years of wandering.
In Théodred’s childhood, whenever he fell ill, the King would summon an old healer named Galmód—Gríma’s father. In those days, Gríma served as his father’s apprentice, and Théodred had taken an immediate dislike to the pale, slack-limbed youth. The men of the Mark were expected to be hardy: though Galmód was a leech, he bore strength in his arms and fire in his voice. Gríma, by contrast, looked as though he had never lifted anything heavier than a quill, and his manner—ever humble, yet never quite sincere—set Théodred’s teeth on edge. After years in the company of the King and his marshals, he had found no part of Gríma to his liking. But Galmód was long dead, and Gríma had taken up his mantle. And for now, there was no one else to ask.
They found the leech’s dwelling halfway down the slope. Gríma greeted them in haste and ushered them inside. The room was spacious but cluttered, heavy with the sharp tang of herbs. Old books and dried roots lay strewn across every surface—a chaos which, for all its disorder, suggested that its master knew his craft.
“Forgive my asking,” said Gríma cautiously, after hearing Éomer’s anxious tale, “but how old is the young lady?”
“Twelve,” Éomer replied.
“I see.” Gríma glanced up at them from beneath his heavy lids, gave a slight cough, and said, “You may rest assured—there is no cause for alarm. A few days’ rest will see her well again.”
“You are certain?” Éomer demanded, incredulous. “How can it be ‘no cause for alarm’ if she has been bleeding for days and it will not stop?” He pressed him again and again, but Gríma offered only evasions. At last, Éomer’s temper broke. “Why can you not give a straight answer?!”
“It is not my place to say,” said Gríma, his expression pained as he shrank back slightly. His dark eyes flicked toward Théodred—a silent plea for intervention. “Why not ask the King of the Mark instead?”
Théodred saw the flush rising in Éomer’s face and knew the boy was seconds away from striking the man. He himself had half a mind to knock some sense into him as well—but instead, he murmured a curt word of thanks, seized his cousin by the arm, and pulled him out the door.
No sooner had they stepped outside than Éomer burst out, “Has he never heard of plain speech? Why all the riddles—now, of all times?”
“Well, he did say it was nothing serious—that counts for something,” Théodred replied, his voice purposefully calm, with a hint of coaxing. “He knows how to treat illness, and he has no reason to lie to us—unless he wishes to be cast out of the Mark. And if he says we should speak to my father, then let us do so. If it turns out he was lying, I will help you deal with him myself.”
The King was in the Golden Hall, attending to matters of state. When informed that his son and nephew had come on urgent business, he at once suspended the council, dismissed the gathered lords, and summoned them in. Knowing that Éomer—left to his own devices in his present state—would likely entangle the tale, Théodred took it upon himself to recount the affair from beginning to end.
When he finished, the King’s expression grew… strange. He sighed deeply, opened his mouth once or twice—then closed it again, plainly uncertain where to begin. And so, in the great hush of the Hall—so still one might have heard a straw fall upon the floor—the three of them stood, gazing at one another: a grown man, a young man not yet wed, and a boy.
At last, the King sent for the steward of the royal household—a woman in her fifties—and bade her explain the matter in full to the Prince and his squire. When she finished and withdrew, silence returned: just as heavy as before, and so complete that once again, a straw falling to the floor might well have been heard.
Having taken his fill of the stunned faces of his son and nephew, the King clapped a hand to his brow and said, “That does remind me.” With a wave, he dismissed Éomer, then rose—slowly and with great deliberation—and crossed the hall to his son’s side.
“You are not so young anymore,” the King said. “Have you given thought to marriage?”
Théodred, whose face had already cycled through a full palette of hues, now managed to achieve a shade yet more remarkable. “I am only twenty-nine,” he said. “There is no need to hurry.”
“I was twenty-nine when your mother bore you,” the King replied dryly, brushing aside the excuse with a single line. Then his tone shifted, becoming more reflective. “You are heir to the throne. It is time you give thought to the future. You are much favoured by the maidens—or so I am told… unless, of course, you are simply too spoiled for choice?”
Théodred was still reeling from these words when his father, now musing aloud, added, “What of Harding’s daughter? He is Lord of the Wold—a sound match, by any reckoning.”
Théodred let out a long breath. “I daresay she is admirable. There is only one small difficulty.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“You truly do not know?—She is but five!”
Later, as he excused himself and fled the Hall—much like a hare from a fox—Théodred could not recall a time he had felt more embarrassed. Éomer, who had been waiting just outside, fell in beside him without a word—plainly contrite, and no doubt thinking himself the cause of it all, though too timid to ask what had passed after he left.
At the edge of the terrace upon which Meduseld stood, Théodred paused, gazing out across the wide plains of Rohan—recovering from his embarrassment, and wondering whether he ought to pay the King’s scholar a visit to ask why such knowledge was not taught before matters like Sindarin. From the corner of his eye, he caught Éomer doing his utmost to vanish into the background. Half amused, and half mischievous, an impish thought stirred in him.
“So, tell me—who do you think is the fairest maiden in Edoras?” Théodred asked.
Éomer blinked at him, utterly thrown by the question. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Honestly… I think they are all just—well, all right.”
“Glad to hear it,” Théodred said with mock gravity. “There are those who say that, since Lady Théodwyn, the Riddermark has seen no true beauties. Perhaps that is a harsh thing to say—but in all these years, I have yet to meet any who surpass her.”
He spoke with absolute sincerity. But having known him for five years, Éomer had learned enough to sense that something was very, very wrong. “…What?”
“There is a saying in Gondor,” Théodred said with a sigh. “Once a man has seen the sunlight, candlelight will never do. Perhaps your mother—my aunt—set a standard too high and ruined me for all the rest.”
A silence followed—weighted, stunned. Then, from atop the terrace, the folk of Edoras heard a strangled cry echo down the slope:
“Even though you are my cousin, that is no jest to make!”